PPC No. 57 'Old Tom'
He had seen the thing from the top of the lighthouse. It hadn’t moved at first and he had thought it nothing more than a dead porpoise or some such poor creature, washed ashore as the tide retreated from the stony beach. Except it did not look like a porpoise, or quite like any other thing he recognised. Despite its strange appearance, or perhaps more accurately, because of its strange appearance, Old Tom Crabbie found himself walking along the thin sliver of pebbles that split the sea from the cliffs and would do so for at least another few hours. An aged but well loved lamp was firmly held out in front of him, clutched in a weathered hand hardened by decades of salt water and hard work. The light of the lamp bit into the deepening shadows as the last wisps of sunlight pulled themselves over the cliffs above. Old Tom stopped where he was certain he had seen the thing no more than twenty minutes before.